


Outward Appearance, Inward Significance

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon Divergence, Character Death Mentioned, Child Death, Coffee Shops, Death of a Baby Mentioned, Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Realism, Not Really Character Death, bereavement, ghost story, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7293493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The painting itself was unusual. Lardo’s palette, full of sepia, creams, and grey, gave it the air of an old photograph; photorealism, Bitty thought. She’d even given one corner a slightly bent, torn look, to convey that idea of it being an overly large, slightly worn picture. The figure stood, skated feet together, hockey stick in held hands across his waist, facing forward. He had short, dark hair and chiseled features. His face stern, but proud, uplifted chin, conveying he would be a force on the ice although the hooded eyes held a hint of something, humour mixed with sadness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Painting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiptoe39](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/gifts).



> Umm-yeah.  
> Well, so this came about because I was think about a book I read a long time a go by Stephen R. Donaldson. He wrote the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant which is an amazing series.If you get a chance to read it you should. He also wrote another series, a little lesser known about a girl who is drawn into a world through a mirror. The first is called, The Mirror of Her Dreams I think. I can't even remember if I read the rest of the series. It was good, but not one I ever read again. Anyway I played with the idea of something like that, but this is actually what came out of that. It has absolutely nothing to do with that book, that's just where the leap came from.
> 
> Sorry mattsloved1 - I couldn't wait to publish - I am sure you will find things I missed :)
> 
> Characters are from the wonderful webcomic [Check, Please!](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com) by Ngozi!

_Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.  
Edgar Degas_

_The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.  
Aristotle_

Marie and Feddey had left early to go to a family dinner, and Bitty closed up the bakery for the night. Locking the door tight, Bitty turned into the wind and adjusted the scarf around his mouth, making sure his ears were covered. Once again he regretted not wearing earmuffs or a cap, but at least he’d grabbed his gloves before he’d left for work today.

 

“You would think that after five years of living in the North, I’d remember what the start of winter weather felt like,” he grumbled, loud enough to hear himself but not so loud that passersby thought they needed to cross the street to avoid him.

 

He hitched his satchel up, so it sat more securely on his shoulder and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. In spite of the gloves, the wind cut through him, and his hands were still cold.

 

Trudging up the streets, his eyes slit against the wind, he thought about how the day had gone, baking wise. More than thrilled with his skills, Marie had showered him with compliments on some of the new items with which he’d been experimenting. She particularly loved the feta scones served with cranberry jelly and the peach and orange blossom jam mini-pies. She talked about starting a new feature each week in the bakery.

 

“We’ll call it Bitty’s Bites. What do you think?”

 

Bitty had stammered, blushed and put his hands up to his face. “Oh gosh! That would be amazing!” Then they sat down and discussed some possible menu items during a lull in the busy day. Bitty had promised when he came back to work on Tuesday he’d have a list of baked goods he could try out and let Marie sample.

 

Her husband, Feddey, had slapped him on the back and said in his heavily accented English, “Gut vork, Betty,” probably the most he’d ever said to him.

 

They had also discussed a pay raise. “Only fair,” said Marie, “people are coming into the bakery because of you.”

 

So although the wind howled cruelly and the dark of a winter night rapidly approached, a light heart guided Bitty home.

 

He deserved a treat, he decided. Even though closing time had come and gone, he stopped at the Haus on his way home. The owners were friends and often let him hang out with them after their workday. He liked the atmosphere here. Hockey memorabilia decorated the walls and shelves, along with the occasional signed photo of a hockey legend so in some ways it looked more like a sports bar, but they served killer coffee.

 

One of the owners, with the intriguing name of Shitty, stood behind the counter and waved as Bitty entered. He continued to count out money, closing the register for the night. Bitty turned the Sorry! We’re Closed sign for him and went up to the counter.

 

Shitty had told Bitty his life story, one night over coffee and some leftover Bitty apple pie. He’d gone to a small college in Boston, turned down a chance at Harvard Law school to piss off his father and had opened the Haus instead. He’d also moved in with his college sweetheart and had been promptly disinherited. Shitty’s father had not been pleased, to say the least, that Lardo was not white, not rich and not whom he’d imagined as the mother of his future grandchildren.

 

“Bitty, brah! How’s it hanging, you beautiful fucker? When you gonna leave the competition and come work for me? You’re wasted at that bakery. Think of all the free coffee I’d give you.”

 

Familiar enough with Bitty, Shitty felt it perfectly okay to harass him good-naturedly every time he stepped in.

 

“Hey, Shitty! Your sweet-talk’s gonna turn my head. Pumpkin spice latte please, extra chocolate shavings.”

 

“Whoo-hoo, somebody got a raise. ‘Bout time they paid you what you’re worth.” Shitty’s eyebrows went up, and he grinned at Bitty.

 

“Now you never mind! You know I’d never leave Marie and Feddey to come work for you.” He smiled to take the sting out because although Shitty was basically sincere in his wish for Bitty to come work for him, he also knew that Shitty understood he wouldn’t leave the Dubovs.

 

“How’s Lardo?” he asked while he waited for his drink.

 

“Big, beautiful and full of the womanly graces of a fertile female.”

 

“When’s she due?”

 

“In about three weeks. We are gonna have the baby at home.”

 

“That’s awesome! Tell her I said hi! Hey, has she got any new pieces?”

 

“Marie and Feddey break the bank on you?” Shitty knew Bitty had been looking over Lardo’s pieces with an eye to someday purchasing one. He’d been emphatic about not taking Lardo’s art at a reduced price when he’d become friends with the couple and said he would save and pay them honestly. Now with what he’d put aside and the raise, he thought he might be able to afford a painting. He had the perfect spot for something in his living room.

 

Shitty handed him his coffee and came around the counter. “Here, you gotta see this one. I think you’ll really like it.”

 

Over the years Bitty had come into the Haus for daily coffee, he and Shitty and Lardo had talked about their mutual love of hockey. Bitty had come to Boston on a hockey scholarship but had had to drop out of Brown when he couldn’t handle the pressure of being checked and the team had cut him. Without the scholarship, he couldn’t afford tuition. Shitty had played at Samwell, as he put it ‘for shits and giggles’. They’d never really met on the ice while at school but their mutual love for the game gave them the opening to an ever-expanding friendship.

 

Lardo’s art proudly displayed on the wall, Shitty led Bitty over to it and said, “Lardo thought of you, for some reason, when she painted this. She said if you had met him, you two might have hit it off.” He gestured to a fairly large painting that hung in the center of the wall.

 

Bitty felt his mouth open a little. An ache settled in his chest, filling him with a longing for something he didn’t know he missed. His eyes welled up, and he let out a faint gasp as he looked at the figure in the center of the painting, finally settling on the face of the man in the old-fashioned hockey jersey. The painting itself was unusual. Lardo’s palette, full of sepia, creams, and grey, gave it the air of an old photograph; photorealism, Bitty thought. She’d even given one corner a slightly bent, torn look, to convey that idea of it being an overly large, slightly worn picture. The figure stood, skated feet together, hockey stick held in hands across his waist, facing forward. He had short, dark hair and chiseled features. His face stern, but proud, uplifted chin, conveying he would be a force on the ice although the hooded eyes held a hint of something, humour mixed with sadness.

 

“Oh, my!” Bitty didn’t realize he had whispered it. He stood staring at the picture for the longest time.

 

Finally, with a sigh, he turned to Shitty. “Who is he?” As he got a closer look at Shitty’s face, surprise took over the ache in his chest when he saw the tears.

 

Shitty sniffed and palmed his eyes, “Sorry, sorry. I always get emotional when I look at this son of a bitch. He was a friend of ours, Jack, Jack Zimmermann. He went to school with us. He played on our hockey team, and he was my best friend.”

 

“Oh! I am so sorry. What happened? If you don’t mind me asking?” Bitty felt a little uncomfortable prying but he knew Shitty would tell him to fuck the fuck off if he overstepped.

 

“Well that’s a long story, but the short of it is he went out one night to the Pond, that’s a lake on the Samwell campus. It was after a rather epic kegster.” He paused and Bitty got the feeling there were things left unsaid. “He wanted to clear his head. He never came back. All they found was his stick out on the ice and a hole. He must’ave fallen through. Never did find his body.” Shitty sniffed again and pulled, of all things, a monogrammed handkerchief out of the back pocket of his ratty jeans. “Yeah, so anyway, he died and the world lost a good guy.”

 

“Wait a minute. I know that name. Wasn’t his dad a hockey player?”

 

“Yeah, Bad Bob Zimmermann. I still keep in touch with his parents. Such good people. So hard on them, their only child. Argh!” He rubbed his eyes again with the heels of his hands. “Sorry, sorry. Impending fatherhood keeps sneaking the weepies on me. Fuuuuuck!”

 

“Can I ask why Lardo painted him like this? In those clothes, looking all period?”

 

“Well see, our Jack was a history buff. She thought it would be righteously cool to honor that motherfucker, by putting him in his dad’s old Habs uniform but take it back to the 20’s. He was kinda an old soul anyway and it suits him and he was an ultra amazing photographer. Now I have it hanging in here and it’s great to see him like this, but it kinda hurts, ya feel me? I can’t see him from the register, which is good, but I know he’s there.” Shitty talked to the ground, not looking at Bitty. “I know you won’t take charity on this and I ain’t selling him at a discount, but would you buy old Jack here? Give him a good home and take care of him? If you can’t afford all of him, you can pay us bit by bit. I just…I just know you’d be good together.”

 

Bitty didn’t know what to say. There was so much love in that painting, this tribute to a lost friend. He could feel the pain emanating from Shitty and that to take it off of his hands would be doing him an enormous favour. Jack couldn’t just go home with anyone. He was honoured by the trust Shitty gave him.

 

“I think I can help you out. Please don’t hold back what he’s worth.”

 

They came to an agreement. Bitty could give them about half the value of the painting and would pay off the rest in monthly installments. He also promised to help out at the coffee shop when Lardo gave birth as long as Marie and Feddey could spare him. They would be good about it.

 

Shitty carefully took Jack down from the wall. He settled him against a table and went out to the kitchen. He came back with a huge roll of butcher’s paper, and together they wrapped Jack up. Telling Bitty to wait, he ran up the back stairs to their apartment above the shop to let Lardo know he would help Bitty take Jack home. Together they carried the painting the three blocks to Bitty’s tiny home. A bit of a struggle to get him up the stairs but finally, they leaned him against the wall on which Bitty would hang him. While Shitty moved a few things out of the way, Bitty grabbed a hammer and some proper hooks for the painting.

 

They lifted Jack onto the wall and stood back to admire their handy work.

 

“Well, he looks pretty damn fucking good there. Bitty, I am going to go home to Lardo, make slow, sweet love to her and chant Jack’s name into the night in celebration. I hope you two will be happy together.”

 

“Maybe a little too much info, there, Shitty.” But he hugged him just the same.

 

After Shitty left and Bitty was alone in the apartment, he turned off most of the lights and lit a few candles instead. He sat down on his shabby couch to stare at the painting. In the quiet spaces of his head and the dim light from the candles, Jack appeared to be staring at him, his eyes soulful.

 

“Wolf eyes,” Bitty murmured.

 

Being a drafty, old apartment, a tiny gust of a chill wind blew through, making the flames dance and added to the illusion that the corners of Jack’s mouth turned up, and he smiled down at Bitty.

 

Later, much later than he thought possible, Bitty blew out the candles, grabbed a glass of water and headed for bed. He paused under the painting.

 

“Night, sweetheart,” he said, a fond smile on his face.

 

In his head, he thought he heard an answering goodnight. The night held that kind of possibility. Listening to Shitty’s story and looking at the painting had opened all sorts of doors in Bitty’s imagination.

 

He crawled into bed and turned off the light.

 

Tomorrow would be a good day to stay home, clean the apartment and work on new ideas for recipes for the bakery.

 

Tomorrow would be a normal, uneventful day.

 

Sleep overtook him and tomorrow _would_ be an uneventful day.

 

For the most part.


	2. The Other Painting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me.

Jack arrived back home just after ten. He was exhausted, and all he wanted to do was wash the gritty feel off his face and change into his favourite well-worn pjs. He was looking forward to wearing jammies that didn't smell of hotels and airplanes.

 

His away bag hung on his shoulder, about to fall off, as he juggled his keys so he could slip them in the lock. With a turn of his wrist and a nudge of his shoulder, he opened the door. Flicking on the entryway light, he noticed the large, paper wrapped, rectangular object leaning against the far wall. Curiosity drove away the edge of exhaustion. He placed his bag on the floor and went to look at it, although he had his suspicions.

 

An envelope had been attached to the front of the package with scotch tape, his name in familiar elegant cursive. He opened it first.

 

_Dude!_

_It's finally finished. Totally thought of you the whole time I painted him. Your apartment is too fucking sterile. You need to lighten it up with art. Take good care of him and maybe put him in a place of honor._

_Hoping he'll cheer you up!_

_Lards_

_PS His name is Bitty._

 

Jack tossed the card on the couch and ripped off the paper. Being this close made it hard to see what exactly was on the canvas, but he got the impression of warmth and light, red and peach with hints of yellow woven throughout

 

He leaned the canvas against the wall and stepped back

 

“ _Crisse_ ,” he muttered. Lardo had outdone herself.

 

The figure in the painting was sitting on a tall stool, one foot braced up on the highest rung, the other leg dangling down, toes skimming the floor. Turned sideways, he was leaning forward a bit, a hand running through his short, reddish-blonde hair, which was slightly longer on top but shaved close on the sides. Bitty wore short, red shorts and a striped tank top, which made his bare legs and arms appear long. Both were slender but defined with muscle. His face, although down, was half-turned toward Jack and his smile spoke of warmth, sass, and promise. His eyes were half open, and he looked through impossibly long eyelashes. They were a rich coffee colour. His skin, clear and tanned, had been painted with tones of peach and amber. Jack’s mouth dried at the thought of running his hand across it. Something hit him in the gut looking at the painting, and his breath whooshed out as if someone had checked him. It had been a long time since he’d any feelings, sexual or otherwise when it came to another person, and the desire to be with and do things with them smashed through his careful reserve, unexpectedly.

 

He stood there, stunned, for the longest time, completely lost in the painting. When he came back to reality, he realized, surprised, he'd been standing there for almost an hour, his tiredness washed away in the sunshine and simple joy of the piece. Mimicking the figure, he ran his hand through his hair and decided he needed to put Bitty in his room. He wasn’t hiding him there, more an urge to not share him just yet. Picking up the painting, he carried it awkwardly to the bedroom and leaned it against the dresser.

 

He'd hang it up in the morning and then call Lardo to thank her and send her more money than they'd agreed on.

 

Watching the light of traffic play on the surface of the painting, giving Bitty the illusion of movement, he fell asleep.

 

In the morning, the sun came into his bedroom window and slanted down onto the painting, bathing it in golden light. It continued to give the impression that Bitty would at any second finish running his hand through his hair, toss his head back and clamber off the stool, ready to start something fun. Jack’s stomach tightened again, and he felt oddly at peace and a sense of joy hovered over him.

 

After his morning jog and a quick breakfast of an egg white omelet, he showered, dressed for the day and sat down to phone Lardo.

 

She picked up after the first ring. "Hey, loser! How are you?"

 

Jack cleared his throat. "Good. I called to thank you."

 

"Well, what do you think?"

 

Jack paused as he tried to put words in a sentence that would convey everything he felt about the painting. "It's uh, it's...nice."

 

There was a heavy silence on the other end as he silently cursed himself, about to apologize, when Lardo's merry laugh come through the line.

 

"You fucker! ‘Nice' he says. Good thing I know you, bro. Thanks!"

 

"Lards..."

 

“Nah, forget it. Where you gonna hang him?”

“In my bedroom.”

The silence returned for the longest time, and Jack wondered if he had once again said the wrong thing.

 

She finally whispered, her voice full of emotion. “Dude! I'm at beyond honoured. So more than nice.”

 

“Yeah. He, uh, he’s not what I am.”

“Jack...”

“No, you know, he's...happy.”

 

“Jack...you okay?”

“Yeah, just thanks, okay?”

“Okay. We’ll drop it until I can get you face to face and then we’ll work on your communication skills.” It continued to be a long-standing joke between them. “Listen, there's a WWII movie marathon on tomorrow. Wanna swing by for a bit and you can pick out all the historical inaccuracies? Complain about the dearth of Canadians featured in American movies of the era?"

 

"Can't tomorrow. Home game, but tape it. There's a three-day break coming up next week. I'll bring take-out."

 

“Sweet! Deal.”

 

“Umm, Lards?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm really sorry. You know. About you and Shits.”

There was a sigh. “Yeah, me too. Guess it wasn't meant to be.”

 

“Lards? Love you.” He muttered it quick and fast. Besides Papa, Maman, and Shitty, she was the only other one he’d ever said it.

“Me too. See ya.”

“Bye.”

 

He hung up the phone and then went into his room to find the perfect spot for the painting. The only wall that didn't get direct sunlight was right across from the end of his bed, so he spent some time moving the dresser to a different spot, putting the small bookcase in its place and then hung Bitty above it.

 

He stood back and admired the picture. It seemed almost as if Bitty winked at him. Satisfied, he nodded and gave Bitty a small salute before cleaning up.

 

Over the next few days, he greeted Bitty with a cheerful ‘Good morning!’ or a whispered ‘Good night’ at the end of the day. It didn’t feel strange or unusual. It felt comfortable. He woke up more than once with an ache in his stomach and his cock hard and throbbing from dreams of Bitty climbing down out of the painting, crawling into his bed and doing things to him he hadn’t thought of in years.

 

The next week he stopped by Lardo’s favourite Asian-Mexican fusion restaurant, ordered all of the entrees she liked best and headed over to her place.

 

He parked in the visitors’ parking in front of her building, grabbed the bag and let himself into the loft. They had exchanged keys a few years back so they would have access to plants and Lardo’s goldfish Sammy when each other was out of town. Now that Shitty had left, they would need access to each other’s place, more often.

 

A cursory knock on the door and Jack let himself in. He weaved his way through the various canvases and other projects under construction, to the back of the loft where Lardo had draped a huge tarp between her living space and her studio to give it a semblance of privacy.

 

Busy mixing margaritas at the far end where she'd put the kitchen, she called out, “Hey Jack. John Wayne, Steve McQueen or William Holden first?”

 

“Oh! _Great Escape_ , please. At least they mention Canadians. I will not bring up the mispronunciation of the word lieutenant and promise to ignore James Coburn’s awful Australian accent.”

 

“I will let you comment on five factual errors but no more.”

 

“Done.”

 

They sat in silence, for the most part, Jack using his knowledge of the era sparingly to point out three errors in history, one continuity problem and the wrong usage of the word _Danke_. There were more, but he knew better than to push his luck.

 

After they finished the movie and before beginning _Bridge on the River Kwai_ , they tidied up the garbage from the meal and Lardo put the kettle on for tea.

 

“I have a couple of questions about the painting.”

 

Lardo turned her back to the oven, crossed her arms and said, “Shoot.”

 

“Who is he?”

 

Lardo looked at the ground and bit her lip. “I was afraid you were going to ask that.”

 

“Afraid?”

 

“Well yeah, see, he’s a guy I'd known at school before I met you. Shitty knew him too. His name was Eric Bittle. We met him when he was a freshman. Played on the hockey team.”

 

“Knew him? That doesn’t sound good.”

 

“No, no it wasn’t. Sad really. He disappeared one night, out on the lake on campus. We never heard why he was out there or what exactly happened. It looked like he fell through a hole in the ice. Never found his body.”

 

Jack sighed. A wave of sadness ran through him. He knew it had been a long shot. Lardo often based her figures on people she knew but she altered them in ways, so they weren’t quite the same, or she used references from other sources but changed them to make them her own. He figured Bitty was a composite, not a real person. To know he had been real, but died, made it feel like Jack had missed an opportunity somehow. As if he walked by the love of his life but his head turned at the last minute, and he didn’t connect.

 

“Yeah,” she said, correctly interpreting his facial expression. She spoke Jack better than most. “He was a good guy. Cute, you know? Spunky. And the most amazing baker. Not bad on the ice, but he had a hard time with checking. I wanted you to have him, Jack. He needed a good home, where someone would appreciate him. But I do have to ask a favour. Can I borrow him back next month? I’ve got an art show coming up, and I think he needs to be shown. Is that okay?”

 

Jack hesitated. In the short week he’d had Bitty, he already felt extremely possessive of him and didn’t know if he could share. Lardo would need every piece to fill a show. The opportunity to have an actual showing would mean the world to her to display her incredible talent, and Bitty was one of the best pieces he’d ever seen.

 

“Yeah, I suppose.”

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“No, no it’s okay.” He smiled. “Now how many errors can I point out in _Bridge_?”

 

“Seven, but no slamming William Holden. I have a major crush.”

 

“Deal.”

 

Later that night, back at his apartment, he brushed his teeth, put on his pjs, and slipped under the covers. Before he turned out the light, he took another look at Bitty. He smiled, sad at the missed opportunity, wondering if he had gone to Samwell instead of going into the draft if he’d have met him. ‘Meant-to-bes seldom are,' he could almost hear his mother say.

 

He clicked off the light and pulled the covers up to his chin, prepared to drift off. He almost made it too, to that in-between place where he could fall into sleep with one more breath when he jerked awake.

 

He fumbled for the lamp and turned it back on. Cold sweat trickled down his back.

 

“That can’t be right.”

 

Scrambling out of bed, he stood in front of the painting. He looked at this several times a day. Had it memorized, knew every curve. Bitty had been perched on the stool, one foot on the rung, one brushing his toes on the ground. Now, somehow, impossibly, both feet were on the rung, and Jack was sure, positive, his eyes were open a little bit more.


	3. Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I left this for a bit - there was some cleaning of the house, some outside yard work & some lovely visitors :D If it makes you feel better I have other stories desperately in need of updating that have been waiting longer XD
> 
> Sorry Mattie! I couldn't wait - you can nag me later :D

Having to wake at an ungodly hour for work, on his days off Bitty allowed himself to sleep an extra hour. As he surfaced, he stretched out on his bed arms tucked behind his head as he slowly became aware. Although he’d had a restful night, a vague sensation of dread left a murky residue in his brain. Clearing the cobwebs out of his eyes, he tried to grasp the slippery tail end of his last dream. He frowned. There were no details he could recall, just a sense of unease, a feeling of extreme cold, right down to his marrow and a choking sensation, as if a weight lay in his lungs.

 

Mentally shrugging, he didn’t let it bother him too much. Dreams were dreams, not portents or signs of things to come. Turning his thoughts to the coming day, he made a mental list of everything he wished to accomplish. He would start with a quick breakfast and get to work cleaning. Whenever he was lucky enough to get two days off in a row, he would spend the first day cleaning, organizing and grabbing groceries for the week. Then he could have a free day to loaf or meet with friends or whatever.

 

To say the apartment was on the smallish side would be a gross understatement. Lucky enough to have a separate room for the bedroom, the dimensions were barely large enough to hold a bed. Adding hooks on the wall for things that needed hanging helped as had raising the bed up off of the floor for storage underneath.

 

He climbed out of bed, scrubbing at his hair. With a yawn and a back cracking stretch, he shuffled into the kitchenette. Waving a sleepy hello to Jack, he murmured a fond “Morning, sweetheart!” and blew him a kiss. The coffee maker made its familiar starting up noises and hisses and with his first cup of the day warming his hands he stood in front of the painting and smiled. It still gave him a thrill, which it should as he'd only bought it less than twenty-four hours ago. The sense of melancholy and sadness in Jack’s eyes remained palpable, as did the return of the feeling that Bitty had just missed something. The beauty of the man in the picture punched him in the gut and a rush of what could have been, what might have been seemed to stand at his shoulder, hovering, expectant. It seemed almost as if he just had to say the right word or phrase or step forward at the right moment and Jack would walk out of the painting before him.

 

“You look like you might be a good kisser, Mr. Zimmermann.”

 

After finishing his coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, he dressed in a ratty t-shirt and jeans, put his cleaning playlist on and set to work sweeping and dusting. With a lot of effort to maneuver around the bed, he changed the sheets and ran down to the basement to throw his laundry on before the rest of the building got the same idea. On his way back upstairs, he planned to tidy his usually clean fridge and make a list of things he would need to restock for the coming week and decide on which tasty items he would dazzle Marie.

 

Entering the apartment he paused. Head tilted to the side, listening hard, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck lifted and a shiver skimmed down his back. The room held a strange sensation of Bitty having interrupted something as if he’d walked in on a conversation or a party and everyone fell silent and turned toward him. The music coming from his phone dock still played, but it took him a minute to decide he didn’t recognize the song.

 

Walking over, he picked up the phone. The music stopped as it parted company from the dock. He looked at the title and frowned.

 

“‘Fifty-Mission Cap’ by The Tragically Hip. What the ever-loving hell? That is not possible. Who the fuck are The Tragically Hip and how’d they get on my phone?” He sat down in his one chair, stared at the phone completely baffled. Never having heard of the song, he googled it. Finding a page on Wikipedia, he read the words out loud, skipping some of the extraneous details.

 

“‘Fifty Mission Cap’…song by Canadian rock group The Tragically Hip…released as a tribute to Toronto Maple Leafs defenceman Bill Barilko…lyrics describe the mysterious disappearance of Leafs hockey player Bill Barilko, who scored the Stanley Cup-clinching goal for the Leafs over Montreal Canadiens in the 1951 cup finals. Four months after Barilko departed on a fishing trip in a small, single-engine airplane with friend Henry Hudson. The plane disappeared between Rupert House and Timmins, Ontario, leaving no trace. Eleven years later, on June 7, 1962, pilot…discovered the plane wreckage…north of Cochrane, Ontario. Barilko was buried in his hometown of Timmins, the same year that the Leafs won their next Stanley Cup…lyrics also reference the World War II style U.S. Army Air Corps, or U.S. Air Force officer's cap…the fifty mission cap was a cloth cap with visor issued to U.S. Army officers in World War II that developed a particular crush from the headphones that the bomber crews wore.”

 

Stumped, Bitty hit play and listened to it all the way through. After, he stared at his phone, not willing to admit that he felt unsettled by the music. He shook himself.

 

“Well la-dee-freaking-dah. I do not know what y’all are doing on my playlist Mister Barilko, but I did not put you there. It must have downloaded somehow.” He turned the song back on, muttering, “I don’t even like the Leafs, Lord, no.” Listening one more time left him convinced the song was not to his taste, and he still felt unsettled. Deleting the song, he decided he rather deserved another cup of coffee before he tackled the bathroom.

 

An hour later, apartment tidied, two loads of laundry done and another in the dryer, he folded the pile in front of him, watching a rerun of _MasterChef_ , the song completely forgotten.

 

“Oh honey, that is not the way to finish off a crème brûlée. It’s burnt cream not ‘I barely brown the top, and it looks like egg whites’ cream. Amateur!”

 

He glanced at the time and ran down to the basement to get the last load up before Chris on the second floor complained he was hogging the dryer again. Entering his apartment, the volume of the TV seemed louder than when he had left and…

 

“What the fuck?” He dropped the basket to the floor, his hands nerveless and icy cold.

 

_The last goal he ever scored_

_Won the Leafs the cup_

_They didn't win another_

_‘Til nineteen sixty-two_

_The year he was discovered_

_I stole this from a hockey card_

_I keep tucked up under_

_My fifty-mission cap_

 

 

The song blasted out of his phone overpowering the voice of Gordon Ramsey dressing down the creator of the subpar crème brûlée.

 

Bitty swallowed the lump of fear that threatened to cut off his breathing. He cautiously approached the dock and reached out with a trembling hand to turn off the song. “What’s going on?”

 

Glancing up at the picture of Jack hanging above the bookshelf where the dock sat, he felt another jolt of panic slide into his stomach. His mouth dry, he licked his lips and took a deep breath.

 

Instead of holding the hockey stick across his waist, it was now angled down slightly, the blade closer to the tops of Jack’s skates.

 

“That is not possible. That did not happen. I am still in bed and dreaming. What the fuck is in my coffee?”

 

_X_

 

The bell on the door of the Haus jingled, and Shitty looked up from the register to wave at Bitty, before ringing in the lady waiting for her double mocha latte. She seemed to be the last customer of the night.

 

“Be right with you, brah,” Shitty called out to Bitty as he stood there with his hands in his pockets. He watched him give the lady her change and follow her to the door, locking it behind her before he flipped the sign. Turning to Bitty, he asked “What can I get you? You all right? I’ve seen better-looking motherfuckers wasted on weed than you, dude.”

 

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

 

Shitty squinted at him. Bitty hoped he didn’t look too closely and see how jumpy he felt as his eyes skittered around the shop.

 

“Chyeah. Hang on. I’m getting you a peppermint tea. You look like you’re gonna hurl.”

 

Bitty sat in a booth, the booth where Jack had hung the night before.

 

Returning, Shitty placed a steaming mug of tea in front of Bitty and slid in across from him. The calming scent of mint filled the air. Bitty lifted the cup, sniffed and took a sip; he could feel some color return to his face.

 

While Bitty gathered his thoughts to try and explain what had happened to him, Shitty, patient as always, waited for Bitty to settle against the back of the booth before he asked him what was wrong.

 

“Nothing. Well, not exactly.” Bitty paused, fiddling with the mug in front of him. “What…what kind of music did Jack like?” he asked, his eyes flicked down to the table, not quite meeting Shitty square.

 

“That is not what I thought you’d ask.”

 

“No?”

 

“Well, no. You look like you got bad news, or you’re coming down with something, not like you want to delve into the musical stylings of my dead friend.”

 

“Sor…sorry, Shits. I shouldn’t have asked.” It was stupid. He should go. Getting up to leave, he shifted his body to slide across the seat.

 

“Hold up there, Bits. You did not offend. Just surprised. Ummm, let me think. Well, Jack mostly listened to old rock, you, know the kind Dads listen to, The Who, Stones, Beatles, but other stuff too, like The Police, Dave Matthews. Oh, some Canadian bands. He was big on being all patriotic so like Rush and The Guess Who and he’d tell you all the time, ‘Shits, listen to these guys. They’re Canadian.’ Some country but only now and then and only the good stuff. Occasionally Big Band and swing when he felt nostalgic.” He looked at Bitty with eyes swimming in memories, bright with a hint of tears. “Why if I may be so bold?”

 

A strange relief filled Bitty. Shitty had a certain presence that unraveled his knotted emotions. He took another sip of his tea, bit his lip and asked. “Did he ever listen to a band called The Tragically Hip?”

 

“The Hip? Chyeah, like all the time. Took me to see them one time when I visited him in Montreal. They had a whole bunch of hockey songs, so he looked at it as required listening. Funny you should mention them. Hang on. This will interest you.” Shitty got up from the table and came back carefully carrying a hockey card preserved in a collector case.

 

“Here. It ain’t worth a whole lot, but it’s priceless to me. Jack gave me that card because I use to make fun of him for playing this song about that bro all the time. It’s pretty much the last thing he gave me, the Christmas before he died.” Shitty’s eyes teared up. “Sorry. Sorry. Stupid son of a bitch is making me feel fucking feelings.”

 

Holding the card in its protective cover like it might bite him, Bitty glanced at the information about the tragic hockey player. It was the same as the Wikipedia page, same as the song.

 

“What’s going on, Bits?”

 

He handed the card back to Shitty. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

 

“Nah! The only one crazy around here is yours truly. Once in a while, Lardo gives me a run, but you know.” He shrugged. “You can tell me anything, right?”

 

“Yeah. I guess. But this is definitely in the realm of weird and I don’t quite know how to say it.”

 

“Whenever you’re ready. No rush.”

 

“What do you think about…ghosts?”

 

Shitty chewed his mustache. “Okay, again, not where I thought you’d go. Why do you ask?”

 

Bitty laid out the whole of his day to Shitty, told him about the song and the painting. Shitty didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Bitty tried not to squirm like a five-year-old. Finally, he couldn’t stand it.

 

“What do you think? I swear, Shitty, I am telling you the truth here or at least it feels like the truth.”

 

“Right. Okay. Hold on a minute. Drink your tea; I’m getting my coat.”

 

Bitty jiggled his leg while he waited for Shitty to come back. He sipped at his tea. In spite of not really wanting it, it gave him a sense of comfort and familiarity. He certainly did not need any more caffeine.

 

After a few minutes, Shitty came back downstairs, and they left through the side entrance, retracing the journey from the night before. Anxiety built up in Bitty, and he wondered if what he had seen and heard had actually happened. He tightened his hands into fists inside his pockets. He hated looking like a fool.

 

Silence accompanied them on their way back to the apartment. Shitty seemed to be thinking hard, and Bitty didn’t necessarily want to interrupt him.

 

Before he knew it, they’d arrived, and he unlocked the door, ushering Shitty inside, flicking on the lights. He shut the door, turned, and the blood rushed from his face.

 

The painting still hung there, the sad icy blue eyes seeming to follow him as he stepped forward, but Jack stood as when Bitty first saw him, hockey stick at waist level, straight across his body.

 

“I don’t understand! Shitty! It wasn’t like this! It…”

 

Shitty held up his hand and stepped closer to the painting. Looking it over carefully, he sighed. “Jack, what are you up to, you handsome fucker?”

 

“Shitty?”

 

He didn’t speak right away, his face creased in concentration. “Bits, what do you see?”

 

“What?”

 

“When you look at the painting, what do you see?”

 

“What? I don’t understand. Shitty? I see Jack, like yesterday.”

 

“No, wait. Let me rephrase. When you look at the painting what do you feel, inside, in your heart.”

 

Not sure where this led, Bitty opened his mouth to say something then closed it again. He shook his head, shut his eyes tight and thought about the painting, about the first time he’d seen it and the way it looked this morning. The way it hit him in the gut and soul, and how Jack looked like he’d kiss like breathing, necessary and life giving. The way he missed an opportunity not knowing Jack and how he intrigued him. The sadness and melancholy of not meeting him filled him and sprung over. He didn’t notice the tears streaming down his face

 

“It feels like I went the wrong way one day and missed out on something. It feels like I should be able to speak across the universe and tell Jack I love him. It feels like if I try hard enough, wish hard enough I can bring him back.”

 

“Okay. Yes. That’s what I sense here.”

 

“You believe me?”

 

“I believe in you. I am not saying you saw what you saw, and I am not saying you didn’t but the world is full of a goddamn number of infinite possibilities, and perhaps there is more going on than we know.” He turned to Bitty and kissed him on the cheek. “Bits, Jack is dead and gone, but,” he drew in a shaky breath, “but if you could bring him back, what would you do, what would you give up to do it?”

 

Bitty squared his shoulders and looked up at the beautiful boy in the painting.

 

“Anything.”

 

“Thought you might say that. Don’t be afraid of him, Bits. He’s trying to talk to you.” Shitty grabbed hold of Bitty’s shoulders and shook him a little. Then he gave him a fierce hug and whispered in his ear, “Let him.”

 

He stood up, cleared his throat and headed for the door. “I gotta phone call to make. I’ll talk to you in a day or so, ‘kay?”

 

“’Kay. I guess. Shitty?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Thanks!’

 

“No, brah! Thank you.”

 

Bitty turned back to study Jack as the door closed behind Shitty. He was alone with a haunted painting.

 

And that was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tragically Hip is a remarkably and unapologetic Canadian band. almost all of their songs have to do with Canadian history, culture or ideals. Here is a YouTube video of the song ['Fifty-Mission Cap'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDSVorNiJCU).  
> Here is an [interesting page](http://www.hipmuseum.com/fifty.html) with information about the song, with pictures of the hockey cards that may have inspired it and information about a fifty-mission cap, if you are interested.


	4. Bitty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mattsloved1 for checking over this chapter for me & helping to find the mistakes I made in the last one :)

Jack put the painting in the living room, facing the wall.

 

The next day he glanced at it now and then just to see if Bitty still had both feet up on the rung. When he looked, he sat the way he had the first day, one foot up, the other with toes just skimming the ground.

 

Just before he left for a round of away games, after having convinced himself he’d imagined the whole thing, Jack took another look. If it looked like it did when he first brought it home, it would go back up on the wall. He turned it over. Nothing had changed. Bitty sat, full of life and light, hand in his hair. He took it back to the bedroom and hung it back up.

 

“I’m sorry, Bits.” He thought about calling his therapist, but it would have to wait until he got back.

 

Everything blurred together, playing away games, fighting exhaustion, wondering about what had happened with the painting, but not wondering too much. Basically a practical person and not given to flights of fancy, he convinced himself it must have been a trick of the light.

 

“Tough game,” Marty said, coming off the ice after their first game. They’d scraped a win, but just. Jack knew he had not played his best.

 

“Uh, yeah.”

 

“You all right?”

 

“Yeah, just, um, just tired.”

 

“Season’s not even half started. You partying hard, or something?” Marty asked with a laugh.

 

“Haha, yeah.” Jack started unlacing his skates, not looking at anything or anyone, hoping the conversation would just end. He was not thinking about the painting, he was not worried about the painting, he was just having difficulty concentrating.

 

Back at the hotel, alone in his room, he undressed and settled into bed. Staring at the ceiling, trying to discern answers, his body felt restless, his skin too tight and tingling in spite of the ache of weariness. He tossed and turned until he finally drifted into a deep sleep. Bitty waited for him on the other side of this reality.

 

Bitty from the painting, all warm, glowing, finishing the movement of his hand through his hair, winking at him before getting down off the stool and walking over to him, his voice breathless. Hands on his hips, eyes wide and his lower lip caught between his teeth. The look he gave was alluring and full of promise. Jack’s stomach clenched, but not in fear. Standing in front of him, he was shorter than Jack, but with legs and arms long and lean, firm muscles and a narrow waist just right for hands to circle, smelling of fresh peaches, and sunshine. Bitty full of energy and life.

 

“Mr. Zimmermann, what can I do for you?” His eyes wide and full of compassion, love, and understanding, he placed his hand on Jack’s chest, and Jack could feel his breathing speed up and hitch. His voice in this dream went unheard, even in his thoughts he couldn’t express the want, the need, and desire, making his skin hum.

 

It had been so long and he rarely felt the need for release, but the free and easy way Bitty simply _was_ captivated him and captured his soul.

 

Not needing any words from Jack, Bitty dropped to his knees in front of him, easily and gracefully. He looked up through those long, long lashes. “Please, please, let me.” Jack’s hand reached forward, and he ran a thumb along Bitty’s jawline. He could see him swallow, and the pulse beat in his neck. And Bitty’s hands were on him, unzipping his pants, pulling them down to pool at his feet. His warm, wet tongue touched the very tip of Jack’s cock and slowly, languidly licked the underside, all while he stared up at him. He gasped, the shock of being touched like this, so free, so wantonly and then being taken in hand and Bitty played with the tip with his lips before swallowing him. One of Bitty’s hands wandered to grasp Jack’s ass, to hold and squeeze, kneading it. Jack threw his head back, trying to breathe in enough air. He looked back down, and Bitty still kept his large, brown eyes on Jack as he took him down, nose pressed into the hair curled at the base of his cock. Jack groaned. He started to shake and then abruptly came.

 

It woke him. He flicked on the bedside lamp and rubbed at his eyes with the brightness flooding the room. His sheets were damp. It had been a long since he’d felt such desires. It had been a longer time since he’d woken up to a mess. He padded to the bathroom on unsteady feet, grabbed a wet face cloth and cleaned himself up. He went back to bed, turning the sheets, so he didn’t sleep in the wet spot.

 

He was grateful not to be sharing a room.

 

Night after night it happened all over again. Bitty would get down off of his stool, sink in front of Jack and make love to him with his tongue and mouth in inventive ways. Jack would wake from some of the best orgasms he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t get enough of being with Bitty in this dream state.

 

Then one night it changed. They’d been on the road for five days and were heading into their last game. Jack felt better, clear headed. No way would he tell anyone that he was playing better because of the amazing blowjobs he got every night. He smiled to himself. No sex before games didn’t mean this, did it?

 

The game wrapped up with another win. The team headed out to celebrate, Jack reluctantly tagging along.

 

Later than it should have been, they headed back to the hotel. He undressed, slipped between the sheets naked and fell asleep quickly.

 

It was different this time. He stood on the edge of a pond or a small lake. An arctic winter wind blew through him; he could feel the granules of ice sting his cheeks. His breath rose before him. The wind blew loose snow along the ice, and it skittered with a hiss. He shivered with the cold. Out on the frozen pond stood a figure. The person turned, and the moonlight caught in fair hair. Bitty.

 

Jack stepped out. Bitty put up his hand. “No!” he shouted out, the sound echoed around Jack and thrummed in his chest.

 

Puzzled and just a little afraid, he took another step forward. Bitty shouldn’t be out there. He could hear the creak and groan, like a slumbering giant turning over. Another step.

 

“Jack, stay back. It won’t hold our weight.”

 

He had to get to him, he had to save him, not let him fall through again.

 

He still couldn’t find his voice in this dream, he couldn’t yell out and tell Bitty to get back to the shore. He stood still as the ice made another noise, louder this time, like a shotgun. Cracking under his feet. He tried to move. Tried to get to Bitty but when he moved, the ice beneath his feet groaned again, mocking him, mimicking the moans of desire from other nights. Jack felt afraid. He opened his mouth to yell, to tell Bitty to run, the ice they were now standing on was too thin, but nothing came out.

 

“Jack, save yourself! Get off of the ice!” A loud crack and Bitty went through, almost comically, one second there, the next gone. The opening where he’d stood widened and the encroaching fissures consumed him. Water filled his mouth and nose, his lungs. His clothes were so heavy and pulled him down, down, down. There was nothing, nothing but ice and cold.

 

He woke with a start, his heart pounding, chest heaving, shivering from fright and from the intense cold he felt in the room.

 

Sitting up, he sobbed into his hands. Then stumbled out of bed to get a drink of water in the small bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror, saw the fear. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Little puffs of white fog blew out. The glass in his hand dropped and shattered.

 

 

 

It took a long time for his heart rate to slow, to get back in bed. Even longer to fall asleep again.

 

 

_X_

 

Back home, straight off the plane, he skipped going to his apartment and went to Lardo’s. Later than he usually stopped by, he didn’t want to scare her by barging in so he knocked on the door.

 

Sleepy and tousle-haired, Lardo, wearing an oversized Falconer’s t-shirt, opened the door. “Jack? What the hell? I thought you were on the road? Come in.” She brought him to the front of the loft and led him to the living area where a few lights gleamed a welcome, probably put on as she made her way to answer the door.

 

“Sorry. I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but I didn’t know who else to tell.”

 

“Jack, shit, you look awful! What is it? Are you okay?”

 

Slumping down on her little couch, it felt like his knees were around his ears. He rubbed a weary hand over his face. “Lardo, I…” He frowned. He did not know how to say any of it.

 

Lardo disappeared for a minute and came back with a glass of water. “I just put the kettle on. I’m making tea before you tell me anything.” She left the room again and came back a few minutes later carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some mugs and a bowl of sugar.

 

“Here,” she said placing the tray on the small table beside Jack. She poured it and spooned in way more sugar that he took and handed him the mug. He sniffed it. Peppermint. Calm and soothing for his jangled nerves, he certainly didn’t need any caffeine.

 

He took a sip, not caring if it scalded his tongue or not, set the mug down and then told her, haltingly, trying to keep it in order. He started with the night the painting had changed and some of the dreams he'd had every night on the road. He skipped a few details, but Lardo, just raised an eyebrow when he said his dreams had started out pleasant, he and Bitty…

 

“Doing the do?” she smirked, not in a mean way, but to help cut the seriousness that sat in the room.

 

Jack blushed.

 

“Uh huh,” she said, sipping her tea.

 

“Yeah and then last night it changed. We were on a pond or a lake in winter, and the ice broke underneath us. At first Bitty tried to tell me to run and then he falls through. I tried to go after him, and I wake up when the water enters my lungs.” He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “I just…I think…” He blew out a breath in frustration. “I don’t understand!”

 

“Okay, deep breath, listen. Let’s take it one thing at a time. Let’s start with the sex dreams.”

 

Jack scoffed.

 

“Jack, you are allowed to have sex dreams, okay? You really like Bitty, right?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay and don’t take this wrong but you’ve been alone and lonely for a fucking long time now.”

 

“Yes.” He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t bark at her because she was trying to help.

 

“Okay, so the sex dreams, that’s probably loneliness talking to you, telling you, you need to get some.”

 

“But it’s… I don’t. Not like that!”

 

“Jack, I know, okay? But I think you’re wound tight, and it wouldn’t hurt for you to blow off some steam if you get my meaning.”

 

“Yeah,…yeah. But the other part. It felt so real,”

 

“Yeah that is weird, but it’s probably from what I told you about Bitty.”

 

“I…guess.”

“Oh, Jack.”

 

He looked at his feet.

 

“Come here. You can crash here tonight. Do you want to watch a movie?”

 

“No, no I think I’d better go.”

 

“Jack?”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s okay. It’s okay to have fantasies and shit about people you see in movies and paintings. It’s normal.”

 

“Yeah, it’s just I don’t or never really have so it’s…unsettling.”

 

“Does Bitty scare you?”

 

“No, no, it’s not that, not afraid of him, more…afraid for him.” Jack frowned. It was stupid, ridiculous, but Lardo just nodded thoughtfully. “I mean at first it scared me. He moved, or at least I thought he did but then when I’d look again he was in the same position you’d painted him and then there were the dreams. Every night, they were nice, you know?” he blushed furiously. “But last night it was more real, somehow. I could taste the smell of snow. It stung my cheek, and the ice was slippery under my feet. And I could feel the water enter my lungs, so cold and painful. Nothing’s hurt that much before, except seeing Bitty go under.” Jack swallowed thickly, the horror and loss coming back to him. “I couldn’t save him. Lardo, I think I need help.”

 

“I think…”

 

“And then there was my breath.”

 

“Your breath?”

 

“In the bathroom, after I woke up, I could see my breath.”

 

Lardo’s eyes got wide. “Shit, for real?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Huh.”

 

They sat quietly, sipping their tea. After a few minutes, Lardo set her cup down.

 

“Tell me about Bitty, Jack.” She sounded sad.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“What was he like, in the dream? And no, I don’t mean how good he was in bed.” She smiled at him to lighten the mood.

 

Still blushing, Jack sat there for a minute, collecting his thoughts. How to tell her? “Did you, um, did you ever stand somewhere at sunset or sunrise and the light gets that golden colour? You know.”

 

“Yeah, like the dust is ignited and glowing, and the air is thick with it, like honey in a jar?”

 

“Yeah, or if you could step on it, it will take you somewhere, or some…place.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay, well when I look at that painting, at your painting, when I dream about Bitty that’s what I feel like, inside, all soft golden, like swimming through light. That painting, no, he, Bitty, feels like liquid light and honey and how cinnamon smells.”

 

“Dude.”

 

He finished his tea and then took the tray back into the kitchenette. “I guess I’d better go. Night, Lards.”

 

“Night, Jack. And Jack?”

 

“What?”

 

“Is it still okay if I borrow Bitty? For my showing?”

 

“Oh. Yeah, of course. When is it?”

 

“Next week.”

 

“Okay, I’ll, um, talk to you about picking it up.”

 

“’Kay, talk tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, night.”

 

Jack stood in the parking lot a minute. He got into his car and drove home.

 

The painting waited for him after all.


	5. Robert Zimmermann

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the additional tags I have added in case there is something in this chapter that will trigger you.
> 
> I think there will be three more chapters, two for sure- depends on how mean I am feeling about the big reveal （＞ｙ＜）
> 
> Thank you to mattsloved1 for looking this over and a big thanks to [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery) for the Quebecois translations and the lovely headcanon that because Jack was raised speaking both French and English, he would perhaps use a mix of French and English terms and endearments when he speaks - so I borrowed her use of Jack calling Bitty 'peach pie' because - (｡♥‿♥｡). Translations in the end notes.

_Bitty?_

 

Bitty rolled over, pulling the covers up over his ear, the last tendrils of a beautiful dream where he walked hand in hand with Jack across the campus toward the Pond, dissipated with the unsympathetic reality of the early morning. The annoying expectation that he needed to wake up and get out of bed pushed him back into a light doze. Work wouldn’t go away just because winter had decided to settle in and his small apartment held the cold far better than his little fridge, but he could stay put for a few more minutes. The heavy warmth of sleep and the little nest of blankets held too many temptations.

 

_Bitty, come on. Time to get up, b'bé._

 

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled crossly, wishing Jack wouldn’t be so cheerful this frigging early.

 

_Tu veux pas être en retard, peach pie. Don’t be late._

 

Soft kisses brushed the side of his head, beside his ear, and started down his neck. He moaned just a little. Already hard because Hello! It’s morning! he ached, his cock thick and full from the attention Jack’s lips were paying to the delicate skin of his neck.

 

His eyes opened, and he sat up. The glacial air in the bedroom a slap of reality waking him up more than any alarm clock ever could. Pretty much put a damper on his morning wood, as well.

 

He was alone. There was no one else in the room with him. Jack was not his boyfriend. He did not get him up early every morning to go for a run.

 

Jack had died long ago.

 

An atavistic shiver raised goosebumps and his stomach rolled and clenched. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, rumpled from sleep and took a deep breath. He placed his head in his hands, leaning his elbows on his bent knees. This latest dream, imagining, freak out, whatever, was just another in a series of weird dreams. In the beginning, he hadn’t minded the strange reality his life had become, living with a painting in which the figure occasionally moved. Bitty got used to it. He rather looked forward to discovering what Jack would be doing.

 

But the dreams.

 

Some of them were incredibly pleasant, like this one, or they were sexy, even leaning toward down right dirty at times, but lately most had forced him out of sleep, gasping for air, certain he’d awake soaked to the skin from freezing water, trapped beneath thick ice, unable to get out. His breath visible in the frigid air of his apartment, not sure if it was from the crappy heating system or something he bought back from the dreams; his hands seemingly bruised from hitting the ice. Afterward, he’d be unable to get back to sleep, and he’d sit on the couch in his living room, drinking hot chocolate until it was time to get ready for work.

 

This one held elements of both pleasure and fear, pleasure for obvious reasons, fear because the space beside him in bed held residual warmth.

 

He shook his head. Enough. Throwing back the covers, he pulled himself out of bed and winced when his bare feet touched the cold floor. He went to the bathroom and turned the shower on, futilely hoping that today the water would miraculously warm up faster.

 

Shucking off his pj's, he stepped into the lukewarm stream, forcing the last vestiges of the odd dream to slip away, ignoring it in favor of retaining his sanity. He shampooed and scrubbed, singing softly to himself. Stepping out of the shower and toweling himself off quickly, he shivered as he dug his work clothes out of one of the boxes under the bed. Heavier socks were put on over his regular ones. The winter had settled in with a vengeance and even though his mother had made him purchase decent boots, the walk to work still made him feel half frozen by the time he arrived. He added a hoodie over top of his work clothes. He’d wear it until he could warm up at the bakery.

 

Still half awake, munching on some cereal, he decided he’d stop at The Haus for coffee as a treat. It would give him a chance to ask Shitty if he needed a hand again this evening. He tried to shake off the sadness that welled up, whenever he thought of Shitty and Lardo these days.

 

Before he left the apartment, bundled up, eyes barely visible above the scarf around his face, he paused in front of the painting of Jack. “Y’all a decent kisser, Mr. Zimmermann, but this has to stop. I’m not getting enough sleep, sweetheart. Although the French? That’s damn hot!” If he worked for Shitty tonight, maybe he’d ask if he had some ideas about getting Jack to behave. Not if Shitty didn’t want to talk, though.

 

Walking into the wind, hands in his pockets, head tucked down, he mulled over the problem of Jack and wondered if maybe it wasn’t that simple. Maybe it wasn’t just a haunting. Wasn’t there a movie about how the dead wanted help, needed someone to solve problems for them, last wishes? Could it be Jack was trying to tell him something?

 

The walk to work held no pleasure as the wind blew straight through Bitty. The sun still slumbered below the horizon but the thought of a large cup of coffee, perhaps with peppermint, whip cream & chocolate shavings, would drive out the last bit of sleep and fear. The little bell on the door rang as he entered the coffee shop. Shitty was there, up early, as usual, open before most other coffee shops, to catch the other business owners along the street who kept ungodly hours, like Bitty and the Dubovs.

 

“Hey Bitty, brah, how’s it hanging?” The edge of sadness hadn’t left Shitty yet, and Bitty wondered if depression would always be visible, a slight shadow dimming the otherwise cheerful face, a mark only some would know or understand.

 

“Morning Shitty, I’m okay, I guess. Can I have a peppermint latte with whip cream and chocolate sprinkles to go? Oh and two regular coffees as well.”

 

While he waited, he mulled over whether to ask Shitty how Lardo was doing. He detested bothering people, reminding them, but he also knew that some people hated it when others pretended a death had never happen.

 

“How’s Lardo?” he asked.

 

There was a pause, and Bitty wondered if he had erred.

 

Shitty put the three drinks in a cardboard tray, took Bitty’s money, and handed him his change before answering. “Well, today is a bit better. She got up and started working on a new piece this morning, and she’s eating regularly again. Not ready to work in the shop just yet. Her mom left on the weekend, and while we were happy to have her, it’s nice just being us again.” A slight nod of the head and he passed Bitty the tray.

 

“You want me in tonight? I’m off tomorrow, so I don’t mind. Give you a break?”

 

“Bitty, you are a gentleman and a stellar human being. Yeah, that would be s’wasome. Five o’clock work for you? Maybe I can convince Lards to go out for supper. She hasn’t left the apartment much, since, well since.” he ran a hand through his hair, his voice trailing off.

 

Bitty blinked back tears. He put the tray down and went behind the counter and gave Shitty a big hug. Shitty didn’t cry this time, but he squeezed Bitty back and said, “Thanks, brah.”

 

One final pat, Bitty picked up the tray and headed for the bakery. His eyes were stinging and not just from the wind.

 

He arrived about five minutes after Feddey and Marie and pushing his mood aside, greeted them with a cheery hello. Feddey, taciturn as usual, grunted, and Marie said good morning back.

 

“I brought y’all coffee.”

 

“Oh thanks, hun! How are Shitty and Larissa doing?” Her face etched with concern.

 

“Same, I guess. I offered to cover tonight so Shitty can spend some time with Lardo.”

 

Marie patted Bitty on the shoulder and then showed him the list of baked goods they were working on today, including two of the specials he had been working on for the bakery. He shucked his hoodie, put on his apron, washed his hands and lost himself in the rhythm of making pies and cookies.

 

Usually, when he baked, he sang and danced, but today he just worked quietly, his mind turning over with his problem and what to do about it. With what Shitty and Lardo were going through, with the loss of their baby, it seemed ridiculous to worry so much about a supposed ghost haunting him.

 

The bakery seemed busier than usual, which Bitty found odd because he knew if he had a choice he’d have stayed home today. By the end of his shift, exhaustion came close to riding him into the ground. Heading back to an empty and slightly-haunted apartment did not appeal at all. At least he would at least have a few hours before he had to work at The Haus. He’d feel better after some lunch, perhaps soup today.

 

Throwing his dirty apron in the laundry hamper, he washed his hands and bundled up. Waving bye, he left. The wind seemed a bit stronger on his way back and it whipped the snow around him, up and under his coat. About halfway home he stopped and looked behind him, thinking he’d heard something. No one was there.

 

“You are imagining things again. Everyone with sense are holed up in their homes not walking the streets in the middle of a blizzard.”

 

_Not a blizzard, Bits._

 

Bitty stopped. “Look, it’s one thing to be chatting with me in the privacy of my apartment, but if you chirp at me while I’m walking home, peeps are gonna think I’m losing it.” He muttered to himself, “I am losing it, who am I kidding?’

 

_Tu veux pas être en retard._

 

“I don’t speak French! Erg! Can you not?”

 

The apartment felt cold still but definitely warmer than outside. Bitty put the coffee maker on and pulled a container of homemade tomato soup from the small fridge freezer. Thawing it a bit in the microwave, he put it in a pot and heated it up the rest of the way. He added some cayenne pepper to it and some shredded cheddar. Sitting on his small couch huddled under an afghan MooMaw had made, he spooned up his soup feeling the warmth seep into his bones. He ate pensively, glancing at Jack’s portrait now and then. He stood in his original pose, for which Bitty was grateful. He really didn’t want any other ghostly shenanigans today.

 

He cleaned up his dishes from lunch and sat back on the couch, huddled into his Afghan. His eyes felt heavy and he drifted into sleep.

 

He found himself back at the Pond. Only this time he was alone. It was night and the moon was bright, reflecting off of the frozen pond and making the snow sparkle.

 

He walked across, his heart pounding, the ice should be safe; it should be frozen solid, but there was an eerie creaking the further out he went.

 

_Jack! Where are you?_

_Tu veux pas être en retard, Bitty! Watch the ice!_

 

The ominous creaking got louder and then a sound like a shotgun and Bitty fell through the ice, the cold washing over him and stealing his breath. He couldn’t find the hole he’d fallen through and he pounded on the underside, but his clothes grew heavy and he slowly sank, dragged down by the weight of sodden clothes.

 

He sat up, his heart pounding, his breath coming in gasps. He finally calmed his heart enough. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Jack move but when he looked again he was in the same pose.

 

Bitty groaned. Enough was enough. He needed answers and he needed them today.

 

Before he slipped over the edge and didn’t come back up.

 

_X_

 

The coffee shop remained quiet through the late afternoon, early evening. Shitty had told him they weren’t going out after all because of the weather and if it got busier give him a shout. Bity said not to worry, Carla was on with him, they should be fine. And as the storm outside increased in its intensity, Bitty sent Carla home. He lived closer and had closed up a few times. He doubted there would be many more customers tonight as it was.

 

At about five minutes before Bitty planned to shut up for the night, the little bell rang and he looked up from behind the counter where he was reading. A man came into the shop, brushing off snow from his shoulders as he did.

 

“Cold enough out there, eh? I might as well be back home.” The man looked familiar to Bitty but he wasn’t sure why. Tall, dark haired and sad, but his grief was not fresh like Shitty and Lardo’s. It seemed older, softened by time. His eyes should be blue, not brown, Bitty thought.

 

“I am looking for Shitty Knight? Is he here?”

 

“Um yes, but he’s not working tonight, can I help you?’

 

The man frowned. “I was hoping to speak to him. Could you give him a message for me? I will be in town for a few days.”

 

“Of course.” Bitty didn’t mention anything about the loss of their child. He didn’t know this man although there was something familiar about him.

 

“Tell him that Bob Zimmermann stopped by and that I’m staying at the Boston Harbor. I’m here to help them if they would like me to.”

 

“Oh!” Bitty said before he could hide his surprise.

 

Bob Zimmermann smiled at him. “Hockey fan?” he asked sort of in a world-weary way as if he was used to this type of reaction when his name was mentioned.

 

“Um, no! I mean yes, but not…you know what, never mind.”

 

Bob Zimmermann paused and looked Bitty over. “Were you friends with my son?”

 

“Umm, no not exactly. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Zimmermann.”

 

He sighed. “Thank you. I should go before the snow gets worse. Thank you young, man. What did you say your name is?”

 

“It’s Eric Bittle. Bitty. I’ll tell him.”

 

Bob Zimmermann paled a bit. “What did you say?”

 

“Uh, Eric Bittle, sir, but my friends call me Bitty.”

 

“My God.”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Uh no, actually I’m not. Can I sit down for a few minutes?”

 

“Of course. Here, sit here.” Bitty took him to the first booth and went back behind the counter to grab a glass of water. He brought it over and asked, “Can I get you something else? Do you need me to call someone?”

 

“No, no, I’m okay. Do you, could you sit for a minute?”

 

Bitty frowned but seeing as they were the only two in the shop and no one else was likely to come in, he sat across from Bob Zimmermann.

 

“Sorry, I think I may have given you a bit of a fright, but I suppose that that is only fair as you gave me one as well.”

 

“Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. Zimmermann, I’m not sure what I did, but I am sorry. Are you going to be all right?”

 

“Please call me Bob. Um, I might be. I would like to share a story with you, young Eric if I may.”

 

Bitty nodded not sure where this was going.

 

Bob grimaced, but not as if he were angry at Bitty, more as if he had bad news to deliver. The depths of his eyes contained a tired sort of sorrow. They were kind, too and you could tell that once they held good humor, but the burden of loss was thick and shadowed everything else. With a slight shake of his head, he seemed to draw his shoulders up and straightened his back. “I would like to tell you a story that you may not believe. But I tell this to you because it might be your story as well.”

 

“I think you know of my son, even if you did not know him personally, you knew of him, yes?” He continued after Bitty’s tentative nod. “My son died two years ago, falling through the ice on a small lake on the campus of his college. The night my son died,” he was no longer looking at Bitty but played with turning the glass of water. “The night Jack died, I was home, in Montreal. It was long after midnight. I woke up out of a very sound sleep. I knew something was wrong almost right away. The room was very cold, much colder than it should have been. In fact, I swear I could see my breath.” Bitty sat up a bit and just managed to stop himself from gasping. Bob smiled wryly at him. “Perhaps you have experienced this? I sat up and saw Jack standing at the end of our bed. He looked wet, soaked through, his hair dripping and although it was dark, there was a glow about him as if the moon shone on him. I knew that he was dead but I didn’t want to believe it.” He shrugged. “He stood there for the longest time, looking at me, with sadness and I think resignation. I wish I had awakened my wife so that she could see him one last time, but I was afraid that if I did, he would disappear. Finally, he said to me, or he seemed to say because I swear his mouth didn’t move, he said ‘ _Dis-y de pas être en retard._ Tell, him Papa.’ Do you speak French? That means, ‘Tell him not to be late.’ I said, ‘Who Jack? Tell who?’ And he said a word I didn’t hear clearly and disappeared. Now I know what it was.”

 

Bitty sat there, his mouth open slightly. He blinked, “What was it?” He already knew before Bob opened his mouth.

 

“Bitty.”

 

_X_

 

Bitty walked Mr. Zimmermann to the small apartment. As he opened the door, a heavy feeling of apprehension weighted his steps. He didn’t know how Mr. Zimmermann would react.

 

After he had closed The Haus for the night, he had told Bob he wanted to show him the painting of Jack, “If that’s okay? I know you’ve had a shock but I think you need to see this.”

 

Flipping on the living room light, he watched Bob stand in front of the painting. He stood for a long time, hands in his pockets, drinking in the sight of his son. He sighed, the sound low and drawn. Turning to Bitty, his eyes full of tears, he said, “She did a beautiful job, Larissa. She has such talent.” He sighed again. “May I sit?”

 

Bitty nodded, offering the couch while he stood, not sure what to do.

 

“Shitty called me a few weeks back to let me know you had bought the painting of Jack.” He said his name without a pause, without hesitation, but there was still a slight inflection on it as if saying Jack twisted something sharp and jagged inside. “You seem surprised that I know of it. Larissa offered it to me when she’d finished it, but it was too painful a reminder. She did it out of love and respect, but sometimes people don’t understand that it isn’t always pleasant to be reminded of those we have lost.”

 

They sat there in silence while Bitty tried to marshal his thoughts and explain what had happened to him.

 

“Eric, is there something about this painting you would like to tell me?

 

Startled by Bob’s insight, he nodded.

 

“Please tell me about your experiences. I know you’ve had some and I think it may be important.”

 

After a slight hesitation, as he organized his thoughts, he launched into the story of the day he’d been doing the laundry and how the song kept coming on. He told how Jack’s pose had changed and how in the past few weeks it had happened a few more times. He didn’t explain everything that had occurred in his dreams, but that they had been troubled, and he often woke with nightmares of falling through the ice and his room freezing. After Bitty had finished, he sat beside Bob on the couch and watched him process it all.

 

“Shitty called me the night you brought him to see the painting. He told me about the figure, about Jack, moving although he did not see it himself. He knew, you see, about my vision of Jack.”

 

Bitty bit his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth. “But couldn’t this be some, I don’t know, some sort of wishful thinking? I’m sorry Mr. Zimmermann, but it is just so strange.” Even as he said it, he remembered the warmth of the space beside him in bed.

 

Bob barked a short laugh. “Normally, before I lost my son, I would agree but I want to tell you something. Shitty never told me your name; I recognized it when you said it just now. You never met, him, did you?” seeming to have forgotten Bitty had already told him he hadn’t.

 

“No, no I never did. I would have if I had gone to Samwell, but I went to Brown instead. I did apply, to Samwell that is.”

 

“What did you do there? At Brown?”

 

“I went on a hockey scholarship but I had to drop out because I couldn’t handle the checking. I played non-contact co-ed hockey in high school, so, I wasn't used to it.” He waved his hand a bit through the air.

 

Bob nodded and sat thinking, seeming to take a deep breath a few times as if he wanted to say something. When he did, it was the last thing Bitty expected. “What if you were meant to go to Samwell?”

 

“Yes, but I didn’t.”

 

“But hear me out, what if you chose wrong and what if you had gone. You would have met Jack, and perhaps, perhaps he wouldn’t have gone out on the ice that night or at least not by himself.”

 

“Yes, but…” and he stopped because he’d almost gone to Samwell. Still...“That’s a lot of what ifs, Mr. Zimmermann. “

 

“I have one more thing I would like to show you if you don’t mind. The last year Jack was there, he took a photography course. He was quite good. I have several of his pictures on my phone. May I show you? There’s this one in particular.” Bob pulled out his phone and thumbed it open, fiddling with it until he’d pulled up the photographs he wanted. He held it out to Bitty, who took it from him and squinted. It was a photo of a kitchen, looked a bit like a kitchen in a frat house and his first thought was it needed a good cleaning, but the composition was interesting, the framing slightly off center and the main focus of the photo wasn’t the kitchen itself but the way the sun was shining in through the window, lighting up a sink full of dishes. The light almost seemed to overlap the scene as if it had been placed on top, or an overlay, using Photoshop or something. The bright light colored the picture with golden hues. Looking carefully at it, Bitty could just make out a figure standing at the sink. A figure, back to the camera, hidden behind the veil of light, but oddly transparent.

 

“It almost looks like me!” His voice squeaked a bit.

 

“I have often looked at that picture in particular. It isn’t the best one in there but I keep going back to it. I asked Shitty about it and he didn’t really know except he said Jack seemed surprised by it because when he took that picture, no one else had been in the room. He didn’t know anything else about it. But look at it, Eric. Look carefully. It isn’t just one picture. It’s two. There’s a second room there, under the first. Under the one Jack took.”

 

Bitty wasn’t so sure. He didn’t want to hurt Bob or crush his hopes but it was odd and with all the other odd things going on he couldn’t dismiss it out of hand.

 

He gave the phone back and said, “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Mr. Zimmermann. It seems that Jack wants to say something, that he has something to tell us or he has unfinished business or something, I guess if you believe in that sort of thing.”

 

“You don’t?”

 

Bitty shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s been weird. But I just don’t know what I am supposed to do?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I think it's not supposed to be like this. I think you were supposed to go to Samwell. I think Larissa and Shitty weren’t supposed to lose their child. I think the things that are happening are signs this is not right.”

 

“Well maybe, but I don’t know how to fix any of that.” Bitty felt slightly frustrated. He understood that Bob had suffered a tragedy the likes of which he couldn’t even conceive, but that is what happened. Death took the innocent and the guilty alike and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

 

The next words out of Bob Zimmermann’s mouth took his breath away.

 

“You can fix it, Eric. You can stop Jack from falling through the ice.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> b'bé – baby
> 
> Tu veux pas être en retard - You don't want to be late.
> 
> Dis-y de pas être en retard. – Tell him not to be late. Scudery says ‘rendered phonetically with the Quebec accent, would probably look like "Dis-y de pas être en retard"’


	6. Suzanne Bittle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter almost killed me until I realized I was overthinking this and remembered that nothing is supposed to make sense :D  
> Two more chapters, the next one will be shortish and then the conclusion. I may not get to them for a bit, though, as work is starting up again.

Leaning against the wall closest to Bitty, unobtrusive, hidden, blending, most people didn’t notice Jack. He wondered for the umpteenth time why he was here, in a small art gallery, watching people stand around eating canapés and drinking wine. A decent sized crowd filled the place. Which seemed to be the point. He fiddled a bit with his tie and smoothed his jacket down. It wasn’t nervousness per se, but he did feel a bit of anxiety creeping under his skin.

 

Lardo would be pleased with all of the attention, and hopefully, there would be a few sales or commissions out of the circus that swirled through the room. The talk near him of the various portraits sounded supportive, and there were many words of admiration describing her work, particularly her lighting and color. A few stopped near Jack to look at ‘Bitty’ and were disappointed to note he already belonged to someone.

 

 _And that someone is me._ Jack ran a hand through his hair, mussing it a bit, but he didn’t care much. He just wanted his night to finish so he could take Bitty home.

 

At least Lardo seemed to be enjoying herself, chatting animatedly with some people who looked like potential clients rather than just friends stopping by to help out.

 

Someone crossed in front of Jack, chatting to their partner, wondering if Larissa Duan would be interested in selling to their corporate office.

 

Pleased for the business generated for Lardo, Jack thought about maybe calling it a night. It wasn’t as if his presence brought in much business. He’d go, he would, but Bitty had to stay, drumming up interest, causing a stir. He didn’t think he could leave him, knew he wouldn’t sleep without him.

 

When had Bitty become so necessary to his life?

 

“How’s it going?” he asked Lardo when she was close enough to have a conversation.

 

“Oh, it’s all right,” she smiled, her face flush with the praise heaped on her. “Lots of interest, lots of chatter, no money changing hands yet. Hopefully soon. It’s more, you know, getting the word out.” She took a sip from the glass in her hand and made a face. “This is rank. I could use a beer. Wanna head out with me after?”

 

“Um, no, practice tomorrow.” His eyes flicked toward Bitty.

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you have it bad for my boy there,” she said, a strained smile on her face and her tone laced with worry.

 

Not knowing what to say, Jack looked down at his shoes.

 

A gasp drew his eyes up, thinking he’d done or perhaps said something without being aware of it, but Lardo wasn’t looking at him. She bit her lip in worry. Jack looked to over to where Lardo’s head was turned.

 

A woman stood in front of Bitty, her hand on her mouth. She was small, not just in height but in demeanor, shrunken, faded. Her shoulders slumped inward, and she seemed to be shaking. Lardo made an abortive movement toward her but stood, indecisive. She looked back at Jack.

 

“That’s Bitty’s mom. I didn’t expect her to come. I wrote her to tell her about the painting, but it was just in passing.”

 

“She seems upset,” Jack said.

 

“No shit, Captain Obvious. Of course, she’s upset. That’s her son. Seeing him makes it hard. Brings it back. Fuck.” Lardo walked away signaling one of the gallery staff, spoke with him briefly and sent him scurrying off. Then she went up to Bitty’s mother and touched her shoulder.

 

Jack could see the two women gesturing toward the painting, Bitty’s mom nodding and then Lardo enfolded her in her arms. Not a large woman herself, Lardo seemed much bigger.

 

Awkward and unsure, Jack looked around the room, wondering if he should do something. The gallery employee headed over, carrying a glass of water, which he passed to Lardo. She offered it to Bitty’s mom and then glanced at Jack with eyes burning, clearing tell him to ‘get your ass over here.’

 

Jack pushed off from the comfort of the wall and walked over.

 

“Mrs. Bittle, this is my friend Jack, Jack Zimmermann. He bought Bitty from me.”

 

Jack offered his hand to Mrs. Bittle. Sniffing a little, she blinked at him, her eyes bright, her face still ashen. “Oh,” she said, a soft, quiet sound, a sound of surprise and recognition. “I know you.” There was a lengthy pause and Jack opened his mouth to speak when she cleared her throat and finished with, “You’re Bob Zimmermann’s boy. You are the spitting image of him.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

 

“I understand you bought this painting from Larissa?” she murmured.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Mrs. Bittle nodded, a slow movement, minute but heavy with pain. She looked at Jack, her eyes large and brown like Bitty’s. “I’m glad you have him. Someone should take care of him.”

 

Jack wondered if she was going to ask if he’d sell Bitty to her. She seemed to sense his discomfort. “Don’t you worry about me wanting to take Dicky from you. I don’t think I could have him in the house, you know. It would be too much. His father wouldn’t be pleased, either.”

 

Not knowing what to say, Jack nodded, wondering why she called him Dicky, but guessing it might be Bitty’s real name. He didn’t think she’d have named him Bitty.

 

“He wasn’t happy when Dicky came out, you know, told us he was gay. Didn’t understand it, no matter what I said. I sometimes wonder if that’s why he went out on the ice, that night.” She bit her lip. She looked at Jack with questioning eyes, shook her head and said, “Well, I won’t keep you. I’m sure you’re busy. I guess I should go.” But she continued to stare at Bitty as if she couldn’t take her eyes off hm.

 

The manager of the gallery walked over to speak with Lardo. She excused herself, promising to come back and chat with Mrs. Bittle later and disappeared.

 

Jack continued to fiddle with his tie since he didn’t know what else to do.

 

“Did you know my son?”

 

“No, I, uh, didn’t go to college.”

 

“I see. Have you known Larissa long?”

 

“I’ve known her for a couple of years, I guess. Met her through Shit…Bertram Knight, her ex.”

 

“Larissa told me they broke up. Sad. But I guess it’s better to know before you commit how things stand between two people. Much harder to go through it all and then realize after you’re married that you have different priorities.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you. I’m sure you have other things you’d rather be doing than listening to me ramble.”

 

“No, it’s all right. Um, would you like me to get you something? Coffee or tea, maybe?” The manners forced on him at an early age pushed the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

 

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother.”

 

“It’s no bother.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He walked off to the other side of the room where a table was set with coffee and tea. He poured a cup of coffee for Mrs. Bittle and placed a couple of packets of sugar and two creamers on the saucer since he didn’t know what she took. He brought it back and handed it to her.

 

“Thank you, Jack. You’re very kind. You shouldn’t stay here with me. I don’t want to keep you from your friends.”

 

“Uh, no, that’s okay, I don’t have a lot of friends besides Larissa.”

 

She nodded thoughtfully, stirring her coffee. He offered to take the garbage from her, but she declined.

 

“So I hope I’m not prying, but why did you buy the painting from Larissa?”

 

He felt himself blush a bit but hoped the lighting in the gallery hid it. “I didn’t know what I was getting. I commissioned her, asked her to paint something that would brighten my apartment, but I didn’t specify. She sent Bitty over, said I needed to take care of him, thought he suited me.” He looked away and felt the blush on his face deepen.

 

“Oh, I see.” He looked at Mrs. Bittle. An understanding look settled in her eyes.

 

“Mrs. Bittle…”

 

“Please, call me Suzanne.”

 

“Oh. Okay.” He didn’t think he could. “I don’t want you to think what I think your thinking.”

 

“I don’t know that I am thinking anything in particular, Jack.” A glimmer of something almost like humor hovered around her mouth, although he didn’t believe that she would ever lose that edge of sadness.

 

“I just, well…”

 

“Jack, stop. I don’t have a problem with your interest in the portrait of my son. Not that I need to know anything beyond that. I am very glad he has a good home.” She sighed. “I do wish you’d known him. I think perhaps you might have been friends.”

 

He nodded, awkward and uncertain.

 

“I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable. I don’t have anyone else to talk to about Dicky.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

She sighed. He looked around, anywhere but at her.

 

“Jack?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“If you could go back in time and save someone you love, would you?”

 

He thought about his mother, hit by a drunk driver when he was six. “I, I don’t know. I suppose I would. I would have to, want to.”

 

“I would do anything in my power to bring Dicky back.”

 

He could understand that feeling.

 

She sipped at her coffee. Setting her cup in the saucer, she pursed her lips, took a deep breath and said. “What if I told you, I think you could?”

 

“I could what?”

 

“I think you could save him.”

 

Jack felt his mouth gap open a bit, fish-like. “But that’s not possible.”

 

“This is where I usually leave Richard behind.”

 

“Richard?”

 

“My husband. Dicky’s father. He doesn’t want to hear my nonsense. He says it’s grief, and I should see someone or take some pills or something and then he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

 

Jack wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it either, but he could feel the pull of possibilities swirling in the air. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

 

He knew what she was going to tell him.

 

“You see, Jack. I have very vivid dreams. I dream about Dicky most nights, walking out onto the ice, the snow blowing around him. And just before he falls,” her breath hitched a bit. “Just before he falls through the ice, he turns to me and says, ‘Tell Jack to hurry.’ I saw you there, once, standing on the ice, reaching out for Dicky, but you couldn’t catch him. I didn’t know it was you until tonight.” She looked at Jack, her eyes bright with tears again. “I usually wake up, after these dreams, cold and sometimes I can see my breath. Do you know where I live?”

 

“Uh, no, ma’am.”

 

“I live in Georgia. It doesn’t often get cold enough to see your breath, particularly inside the house.” She nodded. She seemed a little calmer now, even though the words she spoke were not doing anything good for Jack’s anxiety. “I see you might be thinking that perhaps my husband is right.”

 

“No.” He looked around, but no one was listening. He wasn’t sure why he said what he said, but he took a deep breath. “I might have had a similar experience.”

 

She nodded, unsurprised.

 

“I might have had dreams of falling through the ice and Bitty, er, Eric talking to me. I might have woken up once or twice to see my breath.”

 

Mrs. Bittle set her cup down on a small table nearby and then she took his hand.

 

“Jack. You need to hurry.”

 

_ X_

 

Jack sat outside, by the loading dock. For a small gallery, it had a large loading dock. It reminded him a bit of the rinks he played in growing up. When he lost or felt he hadn’t played his best he would sit out on the loading dock and silently berate himself. Self-flagellation was an acquainted practice.

 

He almost wished he smoked. He would have lit cigarette after cigarette if he did. He chose not too, mostly because of the health effects but largely because of his addictive personality. He knew he’d never be able to stop once he started.

 

Lardo found him there.

 

“I thought you’d gone home?”

 

Jack shook his head.

 

She sat down beside him. “It’s fucking cold out here, Zimmermann. What are you thinking?”

 

“I think I am about to do something completely illogical and stupid.”

 

“Okay.” Uncertainty colored her tone.

 

“I’m going to save Eric Bittle.”

 

“Jack…”

 

“I know what you’re going to say. It’s crazy and impossible.”

 

“It _is_ crazy and impossible. Eric’s dead, Jack. You can’t save him.”

 

“But what if I could?”

 

“What the hell did his mom say to you?”

 

“Nothing I didn’t already know.”

 

“What’s that suppose to mean? And how are you going to do that? He died two years ago in a pond on a college campus. Jack, you need to come inside. I am willing to break my silence with Shitty and call him, so he can talk to you. Just come inside. Please? You’re scaring me.”

 

Jack shook his head. “Nope.”

 

“Jack! Please!”

 

“Lardo, is it better to live in a world without Eric Bittle or is it better to know he’s alive somewhere, somehow because of something you did? Something you were willing to sacrifice?”

 

He stood up to go.

 

She grabbed his arm. “Jack, stop! Do you hear yourself? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

 

“No, I don’t. For the first time in my life, I absolutely have no idea what I am doing, but I’m doing it anyway.”

 

“Jack, stop! You're not making any sense! Where are you going?”

 

“No, it doesn’t make any sense. It’s not supposed to.”

 

He walked away. Lardo ran back into the gallery. He wondered if she would call someone, anyone. But he didn’t care.

 

He knew what he had to do.

 


	7. The Pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go.

Bitty stewed long and hard about it for a full day, Bob Zimmermann's voice roiling in his head and then he asked Shitty to borrow his car. Reluctance and concern sat on Shitty’s face momentarily replacing the grief. He seemed to know what Bitty planned and he tried to talk him out of it. Wait for the morning. It was late on a Friday evening, nearing close to midnight and although the weather cooperated, it could blow up of a sudden and Bitty would be trapped at Samwell College with nowhere to stay. And he had work tomorrow, bright and early. But Bitty wouldn’t listen. 

Perhaps, he said, it didn’t matter about those things. 

 

 

 

Jack got into his truck. He didn’t think too much about the cold or the lateness of the hour. The heat soon blasted out of the vents and the truck warmed up quickly. The traffic was light as he drove to the Samwell campus. Although the air held snow, the weather cooperated. He hoped it wouldn’t storm later because he had practice tomorrow.

But perhaps, he told himself, that didn’t matter so much.

 

 

 

Using the GPS on his phone, he found the campus readily and drove around looking for the Pond. It turned out to be a small lake. He found parking and got out of the car, counting on whatever weird serendipity the night contained that campus security would not bother him. A wind churned up the frosty air around him and drove through his coat like small knives. 

He fucking hated the cold. It would get so much colder before the night ended. 

 

 

 

Parking in a convenient spot near the Pond, he wondered if his luck would hold and campus security would leave him alone. A chill wind whipped around him as he exited the truck, ice crystals stinging his face. The snow had increased slightly; enough to give the air a fairytale feel. A strange sensation of unease and excitement ran through him, warming him more than the truck’s heaters had.

He didn’t mind the cold and the bite to the air pumped his blood.

 

 

 

Standing on the edge of the lake, Bitty took a deep breath. He sensed something waiting for him there, on the ice, under the ice, something he couldn’t name. It felt similar to the feeling of anticipation and of every possibility coming true at once that sometimes happened. Euphoria, he thought, but more than that.

Dread too. If this didn’t work, well, best not to think that.

He stepped out onto the ice.

 

 

Jack stepped out onto the ice. It felt right and complete, even if at the same time the soundness of this decision was still highly questionable and he wondered if this was a huge mistake but he could no more stop himself from his forward motion than he could stop time.

The impression of nothing to lose, everything to gain drove him on.

 

 

Bitty walked cautiously on the slippery surface, pulled forward by that same nameless sense of anticipation. Knowing the moment he hit the right spot, he stopped. He didn’t know how he knew. There’d only ever been dreams. An atavistic shiver ran down his spine. His dreams had always depicted this lake the same way, and it looked like this, exactly like this. It confirmed in his mind that he was doing the right thing.

He waited.

 

 

 

Reaching the exact spot, the exact place he dreamt about every night, gave Jack a feeling of completeness. An odd shiver started at the top of his head and worked its way down his skin, covering it in goose bumps he could feel under his winter coat.

He waited.

 

 

All because of a painting.

He stood here on the ice in the middle of the winter, because of a painting. 

A painting which had reached inside him, spoke to him.

 

 

He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for a painting. He’d be home, alone, in his bed, probably dreaming about hockey.

Because of a painting somehow reaching out to him.

 

 

But if this worked, Jack might live. Jack and maybe Shitty and Lardo’s baby and maybe Bitty himself. Maybe he’d live, too. 

Jack looked up into the sky. The heavy weight of grief and fear he couldn’t remember ever being without seem to dissolve around him. 

Because maybe, just maybe, Bitty wouldn’t be the only one to come back tonight. 

 

 

The wind picked up.

 

 

 

A fresh gust of wind blew past him.

 

 

 

A creak and a sound not unlike a shotgun and a huge hole opened up in the ice a few feet in front of him.

 

 

 

Seemingly out of nowhere, accompanied by an enormous crack, a rather large opening appeared in the ice about a metre away. 

 

 

 

He dropped to the surface, distributing his weight. Not sure if the ice would break further, Bitty crawled as slowly as he could to the hole. Contact with the ice drove the cold further into his bones.

 

 

 

Flat out on the ice, knowing he needed to crawl carefully to the edge, Jack worried the ice wouldn’t hold him. 

 

 

 

Funny how Bitty didn’t question it. Part of his brain did scream at him what a stupid move this was, putting his life in danger, but there are some things you just don’t question.

 

 

 

Not even thinking about how ridiculous or insane this was, Jack didn’t question it. 

 

 

 

At the edge of the hole, something changed.

 

 

 

Reaching the edge, something changed.

 

 

 

Perception tilted. Bitty automatically reached a hand into the hole but…

 

 

 

The voice in Jack’s head he identified as Lardo wondered if Escher had anything to do with this moment, because as he reached his hand into the hole, his perspective changed and…

 

 

 

A hand reached down (up?) and pulled him up (down?).

 

 

 

He felt a hand reach up (down?) and grab him. It pulled him up (down?).

 

 

 

The ice, the world, the universe slanted, shifted, spun. The ground trembled and the ice, the world, the universe made a noise just beyond the edge of human hearing. 

With a shout of everything falling into place, Jack and Bitty lay flat on their stomachs, soaking wet, shivering violently. They faced each other, opposite cheeks pressed to the ice, the weight of their wet clothes and the enormity of the change in the universe held them in place. 

Voices heard coming across the ice, worry and concern evident in their calls, seemed to echo off of every surface. Blue and red emergency lights painted the ice.

A whirl of people, some faces familiar, some not, reached them and dragged them off the frozen lake.

They wouldn't let go of each other's hands afraid it would crumble and disappear if they did.


	8. Significance

It took time.

 

It took time and love and patience.

 

But as Bitty said, they had all three, bucket loads of it. Jack smiled at him, soft and tender, a hint of something sad in his eyes, and said, “I think we need to work on patience. At least I do.”

 

Jack and Bitty walked around the Pond. Winter loosened its hold, the ice thinning in places. He held Bitty’s hand tightly, not sure if he was afraid Bitty would wander out into the ice or if he questioned Bitty’s reality. Seeing as he didn’t have the best imagination, Bitty must be real. It was just a feeling after all.

 

Bitty leaned into Jack’s shoulder and squeezed his hand. Jack could feel the tremors rolling through Bitty’s body, looking at the Pond. “What do you think happened? Really?”

 

Jack kissed him, hand cupping his face, fingers still entwined with his other hand and Bitty’s. Always holding Bitty, touching him, when they were near. “Does it matter?” he asked, and then he kissed him harder, longer when Bitty said, “No.”

 

Later, that night, Jack moved inside Bitty, rocked into him, so overwhelmed by the heat and ache, kissed his neck, felt Bitty dig his nails in his back and heard him shout his name, he felt the world solidify around him, knew he had gone to the Pond that night for this moment, for all the moments between them since and yet to come.

 

Jack wept after, kissed Bitty some more, cleaned them both up and wrapped his arms around him, anchored them to the night, to the rhythm of their life.

 

Rans and Holster asked the question of what happened, repeatedly, so many times Lardo finally threatened them. With what Bitty and Jack never found out. And once Holster asked Rans who would play Jack, Peter or Olivia.

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“ _Fringe_! It’s like _Fringe_. A frozen pond, not far from Providence. Weird shit always happened in Providence on that show.”

 

Rans shook his head, muttered something about Lardo beating the crap out of them if she ever heard them talking about it, and left the room. Hostler trailed after him, still spouting theories no one cared about.

 

Shitty always teared up and left the room when anyone brought it up. Lardo would follow him and lure him back when he was ready.

 

“He can’t quite wrap his head around the concept.”

 

Bitty nodded, sympathetic. He couldn’t wrap his head around being back in school. A different school and not dropped from the hockey team. Overall, it seemed easier than what they’d told Shitty.

 

Lardo never asked questions. Serene, unfazed by any of their revelations and knowing when they needed space or when they needed someone just to listen, a warm presence who nodded and passed them tissues.

 

She’d held Jack’s hand when his mom turned up at the hospital. He’d sobbed in Alicia’s arms, asking if she was really there. Bob looked worried, more so over Jack’s tears than the fact that he and Bitty had almost drowned and died from exposure.

 

“It’s not like this is even believable,” Jack commented after Bob took Alicia out to get everyone decent food.

 

When Bitty called his folks to reassure them, afraid his father would be, well, like his father, Lardo stood, arms crossed, not judging Bitty’s fear. And hugging him after Bitty hung up, stunned his dad didn’t care he loved Jack; just so happy to hear his boy, alive and whole. Or as whole as you can ever be when your mind lived in two different places.

 

Things were different. Things were the same.

 

Small moments seem to come up, flashes Jack or Bitty thought they remembered, that had a habit of creeping in, sliding in, soft and silent, catching them unawares.

 

Lardo turned on the AMC movie marathon, and the opening sequence of _A Bridge Too Far_ came on.

 

Jack, visiting for the weekend, sat beside her, watching, while Bitty puttered in the kitchen. “Robert Redford’s hair is not regulation length.”

 

Lardo frowned, “Really? You know that? I mean the hair length, yeah that I can see, but you know who Robert Redford is?”

 

“Don’t I?” he asked, his face pained.

 

She took his hand, and they were silent for the rest of the movie.

Bitty described it the way fog dissipated in cobweb wisps when the sun came up. Some of the memories were dark and gray, but the brightness and beauty of being with Jack lightened his heart. Frowning during skating drills one day, he had to pull out what it felt like to go through checking practice so he could do this, try to grasp it. The coaches commented he seemed more cautious after falling through the ice. Jack came up the following weekend and took him to Faber. He pushed him into the boards and kissed him every time he didn’t flinch.

 

Bitty laughed, cheerful, more relaxed than he’d been in a long time. “I think I like this better than the first time. Or the way I think I remember it, both times. I like the way it is supposed to be. You know what I mean.”

 

And Jack did, even if no one else ever really understood. No one else could.

 

The next time he stayed in Providence, after a nail-biting game against Montreal, he shook Jack awake from a nightmare. All Jack said, all he knew, was that he’d been too late. He stared into the dark, chest heaving. Unsettled. He calmed him with his presence and the touch of their bodies lying together, naked, skin to skin. They drifted off to sleep, neither remembering in the morning.

 

Jack didn’t understand why Bitty stared at him, pale, eyes bigger than usual, when coming back to the apartment to find him working on supper, he kissed the back of Bitty’s neck and called him peach pie.

 

“Shouldn’t I call you that?”

 

Bitty kissed him, hands in his shirt, tongue shoved inelegantly into Jack’s mouth, hot and messy. “Always call me that.”

 

“Okay,” Jack said, confused, but not thinking much about it when Bitty sank to his knees and unzipped Jack’s jeans, his pert mouth warm and wet. Jack clutched Bitty’s hair and called him peach pie and _b’be_ and _chéri_ when he came.

 

Spring turned into summer; Bitty wandered around Providence discovering the small places and hidden streets near Jack’s. He decided to spend June, July and part of August, refused to go home and leave Jack longer than he needed to, wanted to. Sleep more elusive when they were apart.

 

He stopped in at a bakery, a different store, but a place he knew better than the rink at Samwell.

 

The owners chatted with him, friendly, at ease as if they’d known him for years rather than minutes.

 

Bitty commented, “What made you set up shop here, in Providence, why not Boston?”

 

Marie didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Oh, we started there, but it didn’t feel right. This feels right. Almost like we were waiting for something.” She smiled, her eyes questioning, looking at Bitty with that expression people get when trying to place someone.

 

Bitty agreed to work there, a few days a week to start. He enjoyed the extra money seeing as it paid better than camp and at the end of the summer Marie told him he would be welcomed back anytime.

 

Feddey punched him lightly on the arm and said, “You are gud cook, Betty.” He looked helplessly at his wife when Bitty burst into tears.

 

One day, in Bitty’s last year of school, missing Lardo living at the Haus, missing Rans and Holster in a way he didn’t think he would at first, Lardo called to let him know she been asked to do a show at a small art gallery. Shitty, more excited about it than she was, yelled in the background about amazing Lardo, a creator goddess, vengeful and beautiful until she sighed in exasperation and told him to shut up.

 

“I’m calling to tell you not to come.”

 

Bitty, puzzled and a little hurt, didn’t quite know how to respond.

 

Lardo cleared her throat. “I couldn’t get them out of my head.”

 

Understanding dawned. “Oh.”

 

Heavy silence held them together on the phone, until Bitty asked, “Have you told Jack?”

 

“Not yet. Do you think I should? I never know how he’ll take it. When anyone mentions that night, he gets quiet. More quiet. More Jackish.”

 

Bitty nodded, even though he knew she couldn’t see him. Finally, he said. “I’ll tell him.”

 

Even though Bitty should be studying for midterms, he took the train to Boston and a cab to Jack’s place, surprising him, naked and waiting in his bed. Jack stripped off the clothes he’d worn to practice and slid in beside Bitty. Nothing was said for the longest time. Jack spent the whole of it bringing Bitty to the edge, licking, nipping. Bitty knew this moment, held this moment. They would always recognize the importance and impact of what they had done, what they had committed too, falling through, climbing out of the ice in moments like this.

 

After Jack lay with his head on Bitty’s stomach, Bitty fingers carding through Jack’s hair.

 

“You want to tell me something,” Jack said.

 

“Lardo called today. She has a showing at a gallery.”

 

Jack lifted his head. “Oh?”

 

“She doesn’t want us to come.”

 

Searching Bitty’s face, Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

 

“I think I want to go.”

 

Jack put his head back on Bitty’s stomach. Bitty felt himself drifting off, when Jack finally said, “Me too,” in a small, scared voice.

 

“Oh baby, come here.” Jack crawled up and snuggled in Bitty’s arms.

 

Arriving at the gallery, both dressed up, both nervous, Lardo just looked at them rolled her eyes and directed one of the staff to make sure their glasses were never empty.

 

Jack declined and alcohol. “I need to be here,” he said. He squeezed Bitty’s hand. “Here and present.”

 

A large crowd filled the gallery to capacity, a nice turn out for their friend. Snippets of conversation overheard; people were excited, very few negative comments, lots of interest and even a painting or two already marked as sold.

 

Holding hands, they made their way around, making sure they took the time to look carefully at each piece. There were several portraits of their friends, all whimsical and enchanting.

 

Bitty grinned at the familiar sight of a naked Shitty standing on a pedestal, his back to the viewer. It might have been the only lighthearted response, being there. Unease weighed heavy as they made their way around the room, but they felt they needed to do this.

 

Finally, off to the side, in a smaller room, well light, and surprisingly or maybe not, by themselves, they found what they’d come to see.

 

It felt weird and familiar and new and not the same at all.

 

Bitty’s painting hung there. Jack stood in front of it, eyes filling. The figure of Bitty sat on a tall stool, one foot braced up on the highest rung, the other leg dangling down, toes skimming the floor. That was the same. The peach and amber tones were the same. Bitty’s expression, well, almost the same. His face, entirely turned toward Jack, instead of part way, but the smile continued to speak of sass and promise. The eyes were different, though, wide open and laughing. That familiar sensation of something hitting him in the gut, looking at the painting, and his breath whooshed out as if someone had checked him. The room spun a little.

 

Bitty, meanwhile stared at the painting of Jack. It was a lot different. Jack stood wearing his Falconer’s uniform and not painted in the same sepia tones. The edges were clean and not torn looking. He still held the hockey stick across his body, and he had the same expression on his face, his eyes both warm and frosty at the same time in a way that seemed so Jack, so wolf-like. It was a very realistic portrait.

 

Something almost like disappointment crashed into Bitty. He’d expected the other painting, and he wondered if it still existed. Somewhere. Chest tight, he had trouble breathing

 

The paintings were far enough apart they couldn’t quite touch hands when they automatically reached out for the other.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?” Although Jack thought he already knew what Bitty asked.

 

“Why did it happen? Why are we here now and not…there?” His voice got small. “Apart.” He looked at Jack. “Alone.”

 

Jack dragged his eyes from the painting. He breathed in and out. In and out, calming himself. “I don’t think we had a choice.”

 

Bitty nodded. His body automatically sought Jack’s and he wrapped his arms around him, rested his head on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be whole.”

 

“And I don’t want to live in a universe you’re not in.”

 

“No. Never that.”

 

They went home, leaving the paintings behind.

 

They didn’t need them. Not now.

 

Here, right here, was where they were meant to be.

 

Now, right now, was where they would stay.


End file.
